the least formidable was the Russian Count Timascheff. And although
the young widow was all unconscious of the share she had in the matter,
it was she, and she alone, who was the cause of the challenge just given
and accepted by her two ardent admirers.

During his residence in the gourbi, Hector Servadac's sole
companion was his orderly, Ben Zoof. Ben Zoof was devoted,
body and soul, to his superior officer. His own personal
ambition was so entirely absorbed in his master's welfare,
that it is certain no offer of promotion--even had it been
that of aide-de-camp to the Governor-General of Algiers--
would have induced him to quit that master's service.
His name might seem to imply that he was a native of Algeria;
but such was by no means the case. His true name was Laurent;
he was a native of Montmartre in Paris, and how or why he had
obtained his patronymic was one of those anomalies which the most
sagacious of etymologists would find it hard to explain.

Born on the hill of Montmartre, between the Solferino tower and the mill
of La Galette, Ben Zoof had ever possessed the most unreserved
admiration for his birthplace; and to his eyes the heights and district
of Montmartre represented an epitome of all the wonders of the world.
In all his travels, and these had been not a few, he had never
beheld scenery which could compete with that of his native home.
No cathedral--not even Burgos itself--could vie with the church
at Montmartre. Its race-course could well hold its own against
that at Pentelique; its reservoir would throw the Mediterranean
into the shade; its forests had flourished long before the invasion
of the Celts; and its very mill produced no ordinary flour,
but provided material for cakes of world-wide renown.